


getting a rise out of you

by hobbitual



Series: D/s Hydra Husbands [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bruises, Collars, Dom/sub, M/M, Pet Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 02:53:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5691907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitual/pseuds/hobbitual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>i hope you liked it! follow me on tumblr @ usopp :)</p><p>bonus: my friend made <a href="http://i177.photobucket.com/albums/w226/tokeneasternsong/3F291F68F4BD5BCE438975CE8EBA3A8211D8A31E816C795D8Cpimgpsh_fullsize_distr.jpg">this meme</a> out of rumlow lmao thank you dante</p></blockquote>





	getting a rise out of you

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Вывести тебя из себя](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7987711) by [Saysly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saysly/pseuds/Saysly)



“Fuck! Fuck you! Motherfucker!”

 

The trashcan rattles in its place by the door as Brock kicks it, repeatedly, sweating and shaking with anger. A dent is starting to form in the shiny metal from the force of his kicks and the weight of his shoes. Nobody knows how to do their fucking job around here, and Brock always has to pick up the slack for the new recruits, and he doesn't have the time to play babysitter for a bunch of kids who shouldn't even be here if they don't know what the fuck they're doing.

 

Brock kicks the trashcan once more for good measure, and the entire thing topples over, spilling what looks like a metric fuckton of garbage all over the floor.

 

Maybe he shouldn't have done that.

 

But Brock doesn't give a shit, why should he? It's not his job to make sure the hallways are clean, nobody uses this one anyway; that's the main reason he's in here and taking his anger out on an inanimate object in the first place. For all the bullshit he has to deal with around here, he's entitled to it. Somebody else can clean up the mess just like he's had to clean up other people's messes since the day started.

 

Brock turns to leave, only making it a few steps before he hears the sound of a door opening at the end of the hallway. Nobody should even be down this way at this time, it's too late and anybody who would actually be here at this stupid hour would be upstairs, anyway. The mood he's in right now, if it's another fucking rookie, they're gonna be sorry for thinking it's a great time to go exploring.

 

He turns around and comes face to face with Jack.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

Jack is taking turns looking at Brock and the mess on the floor, his expression a mixture of annoyed and concerned. But he doesn't look surprised; it's almost like he expected to walk in on something like this. He's got an eyebrow raised and one arm still holding the door open.

 

“I could hear you yellin' from across the fuckin' building. It sounds like you're in a goddamn fistfight down here,” Jack says, looking back at the trashcan. “I'm guessin' this fella said somethin' you didn't like?”

 

Seeing Jack always throws Brock off for a minute, especially when he's in his work uniform, and it takes him a second to realize he's been asked a question he should answer. When it sinks in what Jack's said, he feels himself bristling and the readiness for a fight comes rushing back.

 

“Yes, Rollins, the fucking trashcan shit talked my mom and I had to defend her honor. How else could I possibly go about my fucking day after that? Why are you even down here? There's work to do and I'm not picking up after anybody anymore today.”

 

Jack lets go of the door he's holding open, letting it slam shut. Brock jump a little at the noise. He's never liked the sound of doors slamming and Jack should fucking know that. He puts on his meanest glare, the one he's had on all day thanks to being saddled with a bunch of idiots, and shoots daggers at Jack while he waits for him to respond.

 

“I'm sorry to be botherin' you when you're so obviously busy, Commander Rumlow,” Jack says, tone icy and mocking. “You must not have noticed the time, on account of how much work you've been gettin' done, but it's about time for me to be headin' home. If that's alright with you, of course. _Commander_.”

 

Brock feels his glare falter and looks down at his watch. Shit. It really is time to clock out and go home. He isn't sure how long he's been down here; he had come here just to pace and blow off steam, and his anger had just... gotten the best of him. He's had to keep himself in check, be professional and a good leader all goddamn day, he just – he gets tired as much as anyone else does.

 

“Right. You're right, Rollins, it's time to – okay.” Brock looks around to see if anyone else had heard the commotion he'd been making, and turns back to Jack. He can't quite look Jack in the eye. “I'll – I'll see you later then, yeah? Yeah.” Brock quickly turns to leave out of the opposite door but Jack interrupts him again.

 

“And who, pray tell, is goin' to be cleanin' up this mess, Commander?”

 

God fucking damn it.

 

“I don't fucking know, Rollins, how about you clean it up? Does it look like I could give a shit right now? You can mock me all you want when we're alone but you're obviously clued the fuck in to the fact that I'm above you as long as we're here and you can't tell me to do jack shit. _You_ deal with it. I've been up to my fucking hairline in bullshit today and I'm not picking up a mess that we have fucking janitors for. Leave me the fuck alone.”

 

Jack is in front of Brock in what feels like a split second, six feet and two inches, two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, towering over him, and Brock can feel the anger radiating off of Jack in waves.

 

Brock is scared, thrilled and horny all at the same time, and he doesn't even care that they're doing this at work. He meets Jack's eyes and sees his pupils blown, almost more black than there is green, and preens on the inside for getting this kind of attention from Jack. He hates being stressed out, can't stand feeling overwhelmed, but when Jack looks at him like that, he's almost glad he's got such a hair trigger temper.

 

Jack crowds into Brock's personal space more and more, until Brock is against a wall with nowhere to go, all while looking at Brock with such a pissed off expression. Brock can almost feel himself going weak at the knees.

 

“So I'm the janitor, then. Commander Rumlow has a tantrum, makes a mess, and it's my responsibility to clean up the garbage, fix the problem, pick up the fuckin' pieces, Commander Rumlow is too damn important and busy and special to do any of that? That's what I'm hearin'?”

 

Brock's brow furrows, confused and not sure if he should be offended. “I never – I don't think of you that way, what the hell are you talking about? And you know I'm fucking busy, Rollins, I have the most exhausting job in this goddamn place.”

 

Jack slams his hand against the wall by Brock's head, and the sound of flesh on concrete is extremely loud in the empty hallway. Brock isn't feeling so turned on anymore. Jack looks...really fucking mad right now. Brock didn't mean to – to cause a real fight? He doesn't know how he should react, and he feels weak at the knees for a new reason now, and tries to flatten himself against the wall to get a little bit further away from Jack.

 

“All that shit you put in your hair gettin' into your fuckin' brain? You know damn well what I mean, don't try and act cute. You have a tantrum like a two year old, make a damn mess all over the place, hollerin' and screamin' so loud the whole building can hear you, fuck you, motherfucker, son of a bitch, it just doesn't stop. I put an end to my work early, for you, and not for the fuckin' first time either, wonderin' what the fuck you got yourself into now since it sounds like an all out fuckin' brawl down here, and what do I get? Sass and backtalk and the janitor can deal with it. Somebody else can fix what I broke, I'm the Commander. I'm too important for anyone, least of all my second in command, why should I give a fuck? I'm Brock fuckin' Rumlow, ain't I? I'll just pick a fight with Jack, get my rocks off real fast, he won't mind. Why deal with my feelings when Jack can deal with them for me? You're being a fuckin' child, Brock, and you're askin' me to treat you like one. Shut up and clean up the mess you made.”

 

Brock stares at Jack, wide eyed and red in the face. He can't – Jack shouldn't be talking to him like this here, anyone can fucking hear them, he needs to make sure that nobody's around –

 

Jack's hand is on Brock's chin before Brock can so much as turn his head, his grip hard and unforgiving.

 

“You're not gettin' out of this. Nobody is going to see a damn thing, I made sure of it, somethin' you clearly aren't able to do. Clean up your fuckin' mess so I can get us home before it's the middle of the damn night. _Now_.”

 

Jack loosens his hold on Brock's chin enough for Brock to nod his assent, and lets go completely. He steps out of the way, going to lean against a wall with his arms loosely crossed, waiting and watching for Brock to start cleaning up the trash on the ground.

 

Brock feels as keyed up and angry as he did before he made the damn mess, fists clenched, biting his bottom lip so hard he can taste blood. He looks at Jack, trying to read his expression, but all Jack gives him is a raised eyebrow and a inclination of his head towards the mess.

Brock breaks eye contact, mutters “yes, sir” through clenched teeth, and gets on his knees.

 

The mess is mostly wrappers, cartons, and crumpled up paper. It takes Brock about ten minutes to get everything back into the trashcan. It would have been faster if Jack had let him do it all at once, but Brock had had to put each piece of trash in the trashcan one at a time, on his knees. There's one wrapper left, and he's about to reach for it to throw it out, when Jack puts his foot directly on top of it.

 

Brock glares at the floor, kneeling at Jack's feet. He looks up, ready to bitch at Jack about making this longer than it should have been when Jack is the one that wanted to get home so badly, but he's silenced when Jack puts his hand on Brock's head. This is so fucking humiliating, Brock just wants it to be over.

 

“Now,” Jack says, “what do you say before I let you finish here?”

 

Is Jack fucking serious right now, Brock can't even believe –

 

Whatever. “I'm sorry,” Brock mumbles.”

 

Jack gives Brock an expectant look, not moving his hand from Brock's head, effectively stopping Brock from just standing up and walking out.

 

“I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry for making a mess. I'm sorry for what I said. I'm sorry for being fucking born. Can I finish this now, please?

 

Jack sighs, taking his hand off of Brock's hair. “Good enough, I guess. Thank you for apologizin' and let's not have this happen again, hm? You can finish up now.”

 

“Fuck you, Rollins,” Brock snaps, hauling himself to his feet, snatching the last piece of trash and throwing it into the trashcan as hard as he can without knocking it over again. He storms out through the door without waiting for Jack to follow.

 

As soon as they get home, Brock locks himself in his room all night.

 

***

The next day is...better.

 

Nothing really sets Brock off, the new recruits seem to have smartened up since yesterday, and it's more of a normal day.

 

But Jack and Brock haven't spoken to each other since they got home last night.

 

Brock had stayed in his room all night and refused to answer when Jack knocked and tried to get him to come out and talk. It was too fucking embarrassing, what Jack made him do. It's one thing to...discipline him at home. It's another to do it at work. He _is_ important, and respected, and if somebody had seen that, he – he doesn't fucking know what he would do. It's not right, or fair, and Jack refuses to understand and he shouldn't have to fucking deal with it.

 

They're on break now, and Brock had bummed a cigarette off another agent. He usually doesn't smoke, only once in a while when he's had an especially shitty day, and yesterday constitutes as pretty damn shitty as far as he's concerned.

 

Brock doesn't know how Jack would feel about him smoking. But Jack can piss right off today, can't he?

 

He lights his smoke and takes a drag, inhaling the harsh taste of tobacco in the chill air. It's a bad habit, but he likes how the nicotine makes him feel. Calmer, and a little bit warmer, and it's aesthetically pleasing to see plumes of smoke in the air when he exhales.

 

He's alone in his spot outside, and while alone is what he wanted to be at first, Brock can't help but think about Jack.

 

Jack makes Brock feel exposed, and like there's no way to hide. It's like Jack sees everything, hears everything, and always knows what Brock is thinking and what he wants. It's great when they...do what they do at home, but ever since they started doing that, Jack has seen parts of Brock that he never wanted him to, that he doesn't even think about, himself. Jack puts him in his place so swiftly and completely, even when he's doing his best to be an asshole, when he's not sure if he's trying to push Jack away, or make him mad enough to grab Brock by the throat, push him to his knees and show him where he belongs.

 

He loves Jack, and Jack loves him too, and it scares him every damn day.

 

Brock is bringing his smoke up to his mouth to take another drag when it's plucked out of his fingers before he even notices anyone is next to him.

 

“Who the fuck –“

 

And of course it's fucking Jack. When isn't it Jack? And that's the only fucking smoke he had.

 

“Can you not take a hint, Rollins?” Brock sneers. “I don't want to fucking talk to you.”

 

Jack takes a long drag from the cigarette, watching Brock with a placid expression. “I'm thinkin' we need to have a chat anyway, princess.” he says, keeping the smoke trapped in his lungs.

 

“Actually, we fucking don't. You made it pretty clear how you feel about me yesterday and I don't think we need to continue a –“

 

Jack flicks the cigarette out of his fingers with practiced ease, and pushes Brock against the brick wall, pinning both of his wrists above his head, strong fingers clasped so tightly it feels like bruises might form.

 

Fuck, it's only been a day and he's missed this so much.

 

Jack brings his face as close to Brock's as possible, lips almost touching; they're almost kissing, but not quite. Brock isn't sure what he's supposed to do, he doesn't know if Jack is waiting for him to close the distance. He wants to kiss Jack so badly right now. Nothing else matters right now but feeling Jack's mouth on his. Fuck what they were fighting about, who fucking cares anymore –

 

Jack tilts his head back a little, and blows smoke directly in Brock's face.

 

“Rollins, what the fuck – Jesus Christ!” Brock coughs and sputters, the smell of secondhand smoke is fucking disgusting. “What the hell is your problem?! You can't just – fuck, ugh!”

 

Jack smirks, and does Brock the courtesy of waving the smoke out of his face since his hands are otherwise occupied.

 

“Not too much fun bein' teased, is it? It's a damn dirty habit, anyway.” Brock scoffs at the hypocritical nature of that statement, having just seen Jack smoking like he's been doing it all his life.

 

“I wanted to relax for five fucking minutes,” Brock mutters, and starts trying to wiggle out of Jack's hold on his wrists.

 

“There's better ways of relaxin' sweetheart. But you're not goin' to get that if you go on ignorin' me like a spoilt brat, are ya? How about we clear the air and you just stop bein' so pouty? I don't like my princess bein' mad at me.”

 

“I'm not fucking pouting! I don't pout,” Brock growls, giving up on freeing his wrists, but not without one last frustrated jerk of his arms. “You just – you went too fucking far yesterday. Okay, I shouldn't have done what I did, but you just – you can't do that kind of thing to me at work, it's not fucking right. If somebody had seen it, I would be in so much fucking – ah!”

 

Jack bites Brock's neck roughly, sinking his teeth in hard enough to definitely leave a bruise there. Brock feels his wrists go limp in Jack's hold, all of his previous thoughts and reasons for being mad at Jack escaping his mind, sighing softly and enjoying the sensation of pain. He really, _really_ missed this.

 

Jack has stopped biting his neck now, poking and prodding at the forming mark left from his teeth. It hurts, and Brock hisses in pain, but it's still enough to keep him out of his thoughts. His head is lolling to the side, so Jack has more room to push at the bruise. When he hears Jack speaking, he tries to focus enough to listen; even in this state he knows he's supposed to listen to everything Jack says.

 

“It's a lesson you needed to learn sometime, princess. You obviously ain't been taught how to control that temper of yours, but that's what I'm here for, hm? Here to teach you how to be a good boy. And if that means I gotta do it at work, I'm gonna be doin' it. Patience is a virtue, sweetheart. Understand?”

 

Brock nods absently, still half focused on the way Jack's thumb is poking at his bruise lightly; it feels like electricity is sparking underneath his skin. But – he can do what Jack wants. He can learn, and be patient, and be a good boy. He can do everything if it's for Jack.

 

Jack finally takes his thumb off Brock's neck, and Brock lets out a little noise at the loss of Jack's touch, but Jack is putting his thumb and index finger under Brock's chin, making him look up into Jack's face.

 

“Not so mad at me anymore, sweetheart?” Jack smiles at Brock and he almost can't even remember what he was mad about now. “Good. I love you, princess.”

 

“Love you too, sir,” Brock sighs and leans up for a kiss. Jack kisses him back deeply, holding his face in both of his big hands.

 

When they break apart, Brock feels lightheaded and giddy. Jack is sort of laughing at him, though, and he's not sure why.

 

Until he realizes he's had his wrists above his head against the brick, without Jack's hands holding them there. He hadn't even thought to move his arms when Jack let go of him. He blushes, and mutters a curse while shoving his hands in his pockets. He makes quick work of checking that nobody's turned a corner and saw anything, and shoves off the wall, ready to go back inside and get back to work.

 

“Break's over, Rollins, let's go,” Brock says, turning to Jack.

 

“One minute, princess,” Jack says, and reaches into his pocket, bringing out his phone. “Gotta show ya somethin'.”

 

What the hell could Jack have on his phone to show Brock after everything that just happened?

 

“This better be important, asshole,” Brock mutters, walking over to stand in front of Jack.

 

Jack taps on his phone a few times, bringing up the camera app, and turns his phone around to face Brock. The camera is aimed at Brock's neck. Brock searches the screen with his eyes to find out what he's supposed to be looking at until –

 

“Mothefucker! You didn't have to fucking maul me, Rollins! What the fuck am I supposed to do about this?!”

 

Jack chuckles at Brock, pocketing his phone.

 

“Think you've got somethin' at home for that, princess. Covers up your whole neck, doesn't it?”

 

“Fucking – damn it!” Brock yells, kicking the door open to get back inside, storming through without waiting for Jack. “Asshole!”

 

“Still got some work to do, I reckon,” Jack shouts through the open door, and that gets met with Brock flipping him off while he's still in sight.

 

Jack follows Brock inside, runs to catch up to him, and hugs him from behind, not letting him go until Brock gives him a quick hug back, and lets him push Jack off of him.

 

Patience is a virtue, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked it! follow me on tumblr @ usopp :)
> 
> bonus: my friend made [this meme](http://i177.photobucket.com/albums/w226/tokeneasternsong/3F291F68F4BD5BCE438975CE8EBA3A8211D8A31E816C795D8Cpimgpsh_fullsize_distr.jpg) out of rumlow lmao thank you dante


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